The little sister is always passed over. She's angry, but only in an acceptable way. She cries pretty tears. She throws artful tantrums. She expects and is given it all: the ballgown, the carriage, the night of her dreams.

It is so hard to be so delicate, so misunderstood, so special. Then the prince rides in, all white steed and whiter teeth. Off to the castle, to sit and twirl her suddenly perfect locks absentmindedly, all tiara and throne and teeth gritting underneath him.

Passionless...but perfect.

Happily ever after.

This is not that story.

I hated her growing up. As the oldest, being the favorite is your birthright. You expect a certain amount of "watch the baby" and "take care of your sister," but it gets old as she grows into her perfect imperfection. Where are the ballgowns and princes lined up at my door? Why am I always covered in spit up and being berated because I can never stop her incessant crying? Why does she need so much and always gets it?

I realized my birthright was a paper doll, and she tore it, just like she ripped the heads off all of my favorite toys and was praised for being so adept. She destroys, and it is cute.

She grows more powerful. I fade. The prince will never come for me, and I make a strange kind of peace with that. There is something to be said for being harmless, voiceless, innocuous. I will never get what I was born to be. She took it, just like she took my china tea sets and smashed them, scattering shards.